The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

The Siege

Back in Rhudaur, the Tirthon is surrounded and Ethacali's plan unfolds.  He learns the true nature and power of the Blood-Wights.  Skrykalian continues to toy with him.

The Tirthon, Cerveth 12^th, 1407

With light just appearing on the horizon above the trees, Ethacali watched as Hirgrim led the 20 Cultirith Rangers to the edge of the woods near Ynarri’s Drift.  A smattering of arrows flew and landed on the inn, just enough to get their attention.  “Good…good, nobody gets hurt yet.  Just herd them to the tower, Hirgrim.”  He stood under the trees to the south as the battle unfolded, guarded by his snow troll, Oologg, as well as by Naranantur and Skrykalian.  On cue, the Macha Mur tribe took the field, forming a ragged line of about 40 archers and light infantry.  The white furred troll grunted his approval at the developing fight.

Ethacali’s eye went back to the Cultirith, known as the Bronze Guard, who kept their distance, firing a few more arrows.  The three wagons of the waenhosh rushed out of the gate of Ynarri’s Drift and turned north towards the Tirthon.  Ethacali could already see archers on the tower, ready to defend.  “That’s it.  Just scare them.”

Skrykalian eased over to him, standing a half a head taller than the mage.  She was, after all, a Noldorin lady of the First Age.  “Well planned,” she cooed, her face the picture of admiration.  The very sound of her voice stirred his heart, and his breath quickened.  He fought the distraction of her presence, but the struggle was futile.  She put her arm around his shoulders and drew his head to the crook of her neck.  “This is much better,” she said.

“Yes…yes…but I…uh, need to concentrate, Skrykalian, please.  This is important.”  His mind felt foggy, and it felt like a finger was digging through his ear into his brain.

“Of course.  Don’t let me bother you.”

He shook his head to clear it and then pointed to the far side of the tower.  “Cagh should be leading the Siol Nȗnaw behind the tower soon to surround them.  Naranantur, go make sure the construction of the siege engines is coming along.  I want them fully completed in two days.”

The male Blood-Wight shrugged. “Would we not be of better use attacking the tower?  Why this game that you’re playing?”

The mage narrowed his eyes and glared at him.  “Just do as I say.”

Naranantur made a face and walked off.  “Fine. I can be a mere messenger if it suits you.”  It was clear that he did not have a lot of respect for Ethacali.  The mage wished it were otherwise, but as long as they obeyed him, it did not ultimately matter.  He could now see Lumban leading his men forward, keeping just out of bowshot. The tower would be completely encircled by late morning.  He suddenly felt a chill down his spine and shuddered.  The feeling of a finger digging into his brain became the feeling of a long, snake’s tongue probing in his mind, peeling the onion of his memories.

“Ah,” said Skrykalian, “You wanted the waenhosh to make it to the tower.  Why?  Let’s see…some infected grain.  Oh…and an agent in the waenhosh.  I see. Well, I’m glad that my dreaming with the lord of the tower has been working too.”

He tried to push her out of his mind, but it was like pushing pond water.  Every time he moved her probe away, it came in through a different route, a different angle.  He felt her blow into his ear, and he began to tremble.  He wanted to invoke the rune of control and get her to stop but he couldn’t move his arms.  “Yes, that worked very well,” he whispered.  He felt a pang of jealousy, knowing that she had been with Marendil, the commander, even if it was on his orders.

Skrykalian moved behind him and put her arms around his chest.  She giggled.  “You’re jealous.  That’s simply adorable.  Let’s see what else is in the plan.”

He tried to bury the memories. He wanted to push her away.  He could feel her breath on his neck now. For a moment, he had an irrational fear that she would tear his throat out.  After all, he had seen her do just that.  The image of Skrykalian attacking an orc, her jaw stretched beyond what was possible, her mouth full of razor sharp teeth, flashed in his imagination and a cold prickly feeling formed in his gut.  His secret plan had one other detail that he had told only a few of his closest allies.

“A ring?” Skrykalian asked. “I see a ring now.  Oh, this is exciting.  I am very familiar with magical rings.  You see, I was a frequent visitor to Ost-in-Edhil.  Perhaps you know the name, Celebrimbor?  See, I know a lot about rings, my dear.”  She put her left hand in front of his face and wriggled her ring finger.

Ethacali was becoming exhausted trying to fight her mental power.  He had revealed the secret weapon that was currently with the waenhosh.  But what did it matter if Skrykalian were his to command.  There was no way she would use the ring against him.  His vision became blurry, and he blinked hard to clear it.  The Dunnish tribes had now surrounded the Tirthon. They would start to build earthworks to keep the defenders at bay and prevent any escapes, trenches, pits and spikes. “Good…good, they are umm surrounded now. We will…we will…wait for the siege engines to be…to be completed.”  His tongue felt numb and thick, and he struggled to find the right words. “I…I’m exhausted.  I uhh, need to lie down for a moment.  Yes.”

Skrykalian’s hands worked downward, and the mage gasped.  It took all of his strength but he took her hands and moved them from his body. “I…no Skrykalian.  No.  I am going to lie down.  I feel…I feel.  No, you remain here.  You know the plan now.  You direct them…as needed.”  He backed away from her and she appeared sad.  He staggered towards his tall field tent, Oologg in tow.  The troll was afraid of the Blood-Wights, which made him afraid too.  As he approached the entrance, Skrykalian stood there, somehow having gotten ahead of him.  “You’re supposed to…supposed to…what are you doing?”  He leaned on his staff heavily.  Oologg stepped back, his troll eyes wide, keeping his distance from the Blood-Wight.

“You needed help,” she said. “You look so tired, Ethacali.  Let me help you.”  She guided him into the tent to his bed and had him sit down. The troll tried to enter, but she gave him a look and he retreated back out.

“No, no, I’m fine.  Let me be.  I need to…I need to…” he stuttered as she set his staff to the side and pulled his shirt off.  She started to remove his pants when he panicked.  He forced his mind to picture the rune of control and raised his hand, finding his strength.  “Skrykalian, stop!  Stop this! I am pledged to my wife, Ethanya! You must go back and keep an eye on the battle.  I just need a moment’s rest.”

She released him, but her hand brushed along between his legs as she stood back up.  “Oh, Ethacali, what did you think I was trying to do?  I just wanted to help you get some rest. Of course you are true to your wife. I would expect nothing less.”  She turned to go.  “I’m in command.  How delightful,” she said as she strode out of the tent, Oologg jumping aside to make way for her.

The mage blew out a long breath.  He was losing control and he knew it.  What did he unleash?  Just how ancient and powerful were these creatures?  They had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms and knew the world when it was young.  Names that were just legends to him were real to them: Fingolfin, Gondolin, Nargothrond, Thuringwethil, Celebrimbor.  How could he, a 60-year-old mage from Logath, hope to keep them under his power forever?

He picked up the leather-bound tome that the Lord of Angmar gave him and began reading again.  It seemed that whenever he read, new sections of the book were added.  It was a sorcery beyond his ability or comprehension.  He flipped through the pages, trying to find more references to the Blood-Wights.  He stopped at a chapter that spoke of the Tower of Tirith Aeluin in the region of Dorthonion.  There was a woman named Irimë, who lived there, but the name was unfamiliar to him. She had a secret affair with a man named Maglor, which resulted in four children.  During a cataclysmic battle, the vampire, Thuringwethil captured Irimë and one of her daughters, Alquanessë.  Over time, she captured all of the siblings and turned them into vampires. Ethacali was sure that the tome was written by none other than Sauron, who perished at the end of the last age. Who else would have knowledge that ancient.

Then, something caught his attention.  “Wait, what? There’s a cure?”  Maybe this was something that he could hold over them, assuming that they even wanted to be cured.  He would take anything that would give him leverage.  He could never show this to his subordinates but he knew that he was no match for their strength should they get free of the power of the runes. He would need to dispatch scouts to find the proper items and ingredients, just to be prepared.  Then, he narrowed his eyes as he thought of something.  “But the Witch-King wants them as weapons.”  He sighed.  This was going to be sticky.  He motioned to Oologg, who came back into the tent.  “My friend, send this message to Athrug and Urfase,” he said as he wrote down the details of the cure.  “Tell them that they need to procure these things.  Price and force are no object.”

“Yes, mage.”

As the troll left, the ranger, Hirgrim, entered with one of his sergeants, Castor.  The captain of the Cultirith was easily recognized by the scars that snaked across his body from numerous battles.  He wore a leather cuirass and greaves that were tinted bronze. His dark hair just began graying as he approached middle age.  “Ethacali, the tower is surrounded,” he said in his gravelly voice.  “We’ve begun setting the siege lines just out of bowshot.  I did lose one man to a stray arrow though. When should we begin the attack?”

Hirgrim was initially angry that an outsider from the east was given command, so Ethacali did his best to include the captain in his plans.  “What do you suggest?”

The captain thought for a moment, seemingly pleased to make the decision.  “I would like to wait until the siege engines are completed. We outnumber them, but we are only light infantry.  The Vulseggi in there have heavy cavalry, which we cannot stand against in open battle. And those tribesmen with us…let me just say that they are unsteady in a stand up fight.  Cagh’s boys are a little bit better, but none of them are going to live through a charge of heavy horse with lances.”

Ethacali nodded.  “Very good.  Thank you for your opinion on this.  That is what we will do.  Send out word to Lumban and Cagh.”

As Hirgrim tilted his head and walked out of the tent, Ethacali motioned to Castor.  “Stay a moment.  I have something for the Cultirith.”  When Hirgrim was out of earshot, the mage put a bag of gold coins in the sergeant’s hand and their eyes met with some secret knowledge between them. “Our arrangement still stands.  Keep an eye on him.”  The sergeant grinned and then departed.            

Now, it was time for the infected grain to take effect in the tower along with his agent in the waenhosh. The ring would be most crucial of all to an easy victory here.  He could then return to Carn Dȗm victorious, receive his reward and make his way back to Logath.  He lay back in his bed and pictured Ethanya cooking his favorite beef broth as his grandchildren laughed and played at his feet. 

Chapter End Notes

Ethacali learns more about the nature of the Blood-Wights and knows that he is outmatched.  But can he outthink them and maintain control?  His plan nears fruition and he can return to his family that he loves so much.